Nightingale Wood (28 page)

‘Go home yourself, Dick Falger,’ said a woman’s voice, shrilly (Tina, watching Saxon, saw him start, and move forward, then stop himself). ‘Proper drunk, you are.’

‘So are you,’ retorted the Hermit. ‘Both of ush. Nev’ min’! M
ISTER
W
ITHER
! M
ISTER
W
ITHER
!—’

It was impossible to ignore the deafening noise. The guests gave it up. With cups and food suspended in mid-air, they gazed in the direction of the yard, concealed from the garden by a screen of limes in blossom and thick shrubs. In the pause Chappy began to bark furiously.

No one said anything. No one moved. Mr Wither gazed helplessly at Mrs Wither, everyone gazed inquiringly at everyone else. Finally Colonel Phillips, staring straight ahead of him, said curtly:

‘No business of mine, but can I be of any use?’

‘Oh no, no, I don’t think so, thank you, very good of you,’ stammered Mr Wither. ‘It’s only that fellow who lives in the wood across the road, you know, he – Saxon, go and see what’s the matter, will you? Turn the fellow out … disgraceful …’

He bent forward and began to tell Colonel Phillips about the Hermit, while everyone else, revived by this incident, fell upon their tea with renewed appetite.

Saxon went off quickly, looking rather pale.

Tina, forgetting that her companion was waiting to be informed about the Hermit, stared after him, her heart beating faster. Suppose there was a fight?

For a few minutes there was silence. Everyone ate, talked, asked for more, with their ears pricked.

Suddenly the uproar broke out again, louder than ever. Bellows, screams, scuffling, shrieks, cries of pain and the furious barking of Chappy, suddenly changing to an agonized yelping, rang behind the screen of trees.

‘Chappy! Chappy!’ roared Doctor Parsham, streaking out through the french windows and rushing across the lawn. ‘Leave my dog alone, damn you!’

Colonel Phillips, Victor, Mr Wither and all the other men were on their feet.

Polo began to yap. Madge darted to his side.

‘M
ISHTER
W
ITHER
!’ bellowed the voice.

A piercing shriek.

‘Come on!’ cried Colonel Phillips, and everyone, yielding to temptation, hurried across the lawn in the direction of the trees. The noises were so alarming that even Mrs Spring, usually correct in her behaviour, felt it her duty to investigate, while Lady Dovewood, as the mother of two sons whose hobby was boxing, felt a semi-professional interest in any fight. Besides, the party was such a boring one.

Viola found Victor by her side. He took her hand, and pulled her back so that they dropped behind the others, darted into a little old summer-house in a sheltered part of the garden, and dragged her in after him.

‘There!’ he said coolly, shutting the door. ‘Now we …’

It was almost dark in the summer-house, save for a shady, moving summer light coming through the window, dimmed by some evergreens. Viola, lost in a trance of pleasure and happiness, ardently returned his kisses, both arms round his neck, her eyes shut, her breath coming fast. Neither spoke.

They forgot where they were. Everything was silent, except the rush of the wind through the glittering laurels outside, whose lights danced over the cobwebbed ceiling.

At last Victor muttered, ‘This won’t do. They’ll be wondering where we are.’

She sighed, and slowly opened her eyes. The pupils had spread velvet black over the grey; they looked up at him solemnly.

‘Wake up!’ He gave her a little shake. ‘Pull yourself together.’

It would never do to have her reappear with that look on her face. She might as well wear a placard round her neck.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked gently, looking at her over his shoulder as he opened the door.

‘Viola,’ almost in a whisper.

‘Pretty … like you. Now look here …’ he was cautiously yet casually looking round the garden; it was deserted, but confused sounds still came from the yard, ‘not a word about this to anyone, do you understand?’

‘Of course not,’ she said, going very pink. ‘I shouldn’t dream of it.’

‘Well … mind you don’t. Because …’ They were walking quickly across to the screen of trees. Viola shivered a little in the cool wind; she still felt dazed: ‘… if you do, it may land us in all kinds of a mess.’

He gave her a caressing smile which she faintly returned. She was completely happy, walking over the grass in a dream of delight. He had kissed her, he loved her. He would take her to the theatre, and while they were there, he would ask her to marry him. It was wonderful; it was like a fairy story, but it was true.

‘The battle seems to be over,’ said Victor cheerfully, as they stepped round the lime-trees, ‘Mrs Wither turned her ankle, and I stopped to look after her,’ smiling impudently at Mrs Wither senior, whose distressed yet sharp eyes were turned suspiciously upon Viola. ‘Have you got rid of the Hermit?’

‘Yes, Colonel Phillips and Saxon had to run him out of the yard,’ said Mrs Wither, who was so much embarrassed by the events of the afternoon and so overwhelmed by the calamities that had befallen her garden party that she was nearly crying. ‘Here they come now … oh, Colonel Phillips, how good of you! I do hope you’re not hurt? I can’t tell you how sorry we are …’

‘Nonsense, nonsense. Not your fault. No harm done,’ said Colonel Phillips, grimly (he was limping). ‘Your chauffeur got the worse of it, I’m afraid. The fellow got him down before I could stop him. Gave his head a nasty crack. Your good Cook is attending to him. Parsham! your beastly dog got loose and legged it up the road … bowled me over, confound it. He’s half-way home now, I should think.’

‘Is Saxon much hurt, Annie?’ asked Tina, with trembling lips, as the party slowly went back into the garden, all talking at once and agreeing that the Hermit was a disgrace, Mrs Caker a great pity, and their association a scandal. A beautiful evening was setting in, the wind had fallen at last. Little gold clouds were spread over the sky.

‘Not much, Miss Tina; he’s got a nasty bruise. But, Miss,’ Annie lowered her voice, staring down respectfully at her large feet, ‘he’s so upset. His mother being there, you know, Miss. With that man. The worse for drink. Isn’t it dreadful, Miss, a nice respectable boy like Saxon. In front of everyone. Calling him names, Miss. Cook and me didn’t know where to look.’

‘I’ll come down and see him,’ said Tina suddenly, turning her back on the garden party (which was now going like a house on fire, since something nasty had happened and given everyone a subject for talk. There is nothing like something nasty for bringing people together).

‘I’m so sorry about it all, Annie,’ went on Tina, as they walked quickly back to the house. ‘He
is
a nice respectable boy, and I should like him to know that we’re not angry with him because his mother came here like that.’

There was an indescribable comfort in talking thus to Annie, who had been with them for fifteen years and known Tina as a girl, in the shadow of the ugly, staid house where she had been born. Though she did not love the house nor the people in it, though she took them for granted and longed to get away from the life she lived there with them, she felt that by talking about Saxon like this she was drawing him into the circle of her own life and surrounding him with comfort and warmth. Tina wanted to show Annie, Saxon himself, everyone, that The Eagles cared for him, and supported him against the grossness of his mother and her life.

The hush that had fallen with evening, the calm golden light on the house, the cobblestones and the half-open garage door, seemed beautiful to her. She felt happy yet sad, as though she were listening to music.

‘Is he in your parlour?’

‘Yes, Miss Tina.’

The servants’ parlour was on the other side of the house and had a view of the road and the oak wood. The room was full of reflected sunbeams thrown up from the white lane, and in this strange shimmer of light, Saxon looked very pale. He was sitting in Cook’s own wicker-chair while Cook herself carefully bathed an ugly bruise at the back of his head with warm water and boracic. He was very quiet. Tina saw at once that he was blinded by rage. He looked up at her as though he did not know her.

‘There – here’s Miss Tina come to see you,’ said Cook, in as soothing a voice as her austere nature could manage; she spoke as though he were seven years old.

‘Is it bad?’ asked Tina, quietly.

‘Oh no, Miss; Doctor Parsham said I could do all that was necessary. But it’s made him feel sick like, for the minute.’

‘Of course,’ nodded Annie, importantly. (Fawcuss was upstairs helping to usher out the visitors.) ‘Falling like that. Bound to.’

Saxon said nothing, but stared at his boots.

I
must
say something to comfort him, thought Tina. It’s horrible to see all his courage gone. What can I say? Nothing patronizing; nothing soft or ‘cheery’. Difficult.

But as she looked at his dark lowered head and the line of eyelashes lying obstinately on his pale cheek, she suddenly found herself speaking from her heart, as though he and she were alone.

‘You mustn’t mind about it,’ she said, gently yet with authority, bending a little towards him. ‘It’s horrible, I know, but it doesn’t make any difference to
you
, Saxon. A person’s self-respect isn’t hurt by what other people do to them. Only you can hurt your own self-respect. So you mustn’t mind.’

Cook and Annie, standing apart, seemed a little surprised, but Cook nodded approvingly. The three women looked gently at him, as though he were a child; and Tina’s honesty and tenderness, the dour goodness of the ageing servants, seemed to surround him like a wall, reminding him that other people also cared about Virtue in her myriad forms, that his battle was not fought without allies.

He did not look up, but said in a very low, yet distinct, tone: ‘Thank you, Miss Tina.’

When she got up to her room that evening about ten o’clock she found on the black lacquer table a little bunch of pink roses, their stems neatly tied with bast. None grew in the Withers’ own garden; the nearest came from a cottage on the other side of the wood near the cross-roads, where the children stood on Sundays and offered them to passing motorists. He must have walked all the way back with them, made some excuse to get into the house, and found his way, while the family were at dinner, to her room.

A sweet breath came hauntingly from them and scented the air about her all night while she slept.

About half-past eight that evening, as the servants were settling down to listen-in, a van rushed into the yard, dusty and triumphant, driven by an old man. Out of it hopped a little boy, and flew up to the back door with a huge package.

It was the cakes.

CHAPTER XVI

How happily three summer days flew past! Viola shone with her secret; she played with Polo, picked out tunes on the piano with one finger, sang last year’s songs up and downstairs, tried to help everyone and made rather a nuisance of herself. She wrote Mrs Victor Spring, Viola Spring, Yours sincerely Mrs V. Spring, all over her writing-block, repaired her small store of clothes with a vague idea of being ready for a sudden departure, and kissed the dance programme every night before she went to sleep. It has been hinted that her nature was affectionate; now that it had received encouragement there was no holding it; she was in love, so much in love that she did not realize that it was Wednesday morning and the letter had not come; and that the man she was in love with was the legendary Victor Spring. Victor had now become Him. He was less of a real person than ever. She never once thought about his character or his income or his mother. She was drunk. She wandered about like a dazzled moth, smiling dreamily, and running downstairs when the postman came, crying:

‘Anything for me?’

He had said: ‘Good. I’ll write to you,’ so of course he would. It was not like last time when he had not said anything.

When Friday morning came and there was no letter, she could still find satisfying reasons why there should not be, for she remembered Mr Wither saying that Victor was very busy just now; and had not Victor himself told her that he had cut two Board meetings and a trip to the North to come to the garden party? Having made this excuse for him, she happily resumed her waiting for the letter, living on memories and hardly aware of the days as they flew, nor of the fact that the atmosphere of The Eagles was much pleasanter than was usual.

Tina had fresh liveliness in her manner and colour in her cheeks, Madge was always good humoured and made a lot of jokes, which pleased Mrs Wither and kept her from disapproving of everything as much as usual, and Mr Wither, because the money had again rallied, was on top of the world. He showed it by suddenly giving the four women a pound each.

Fawcuss, Annie and Cook were kept busy and contented about the annual Summer Fête given by the Vicar of Sible Pelden; they were knitting, baking and sewing things for the Give What You Like stall. Saxon’s whistle, cheerful and sweet even when it was rendering: ‘Whaddam I Gonta Do?’ was heard all day round the mansion and in the yard like the voice of an invisible house-spirit. Polo learned to do Trust and Paid For. Mr Spurrey wrote that his rheumatism was better. The weather was beautiful, and everything too pleasant to last.

The general contentment was increased on Monday morning by the arrival of an elegant printed invitation, to the entire household, to attend a garden party at Grassmere on the following Saturday!

Mrs Wither studied the card, printed in white on scarlet with a tiny sailing-boat in one corner. It had that air of just having been thought of and rushed off in hundreds by an up-to-date and expensive printing firm that marked all the Spring stationery. It looked exciting. It made you think ‘Now why didn’t we splash a bit and have our cards done like that?’ It was only later that you realized that the party itself, the house it was given in, the food and the drink, would have to be even more exciting than the card, in order to justify the excitement the card had raised. Then, of course, you gave up the whole idea and bought ordinary cards as usual.